


Shatter These Walls

by starlightshade



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Drunkenness, Flowery Prose, Holmes' misogyny, M/M, Now with bonus Mycroft!, Plot, Rough Sex, Talking, amateur musicology/music theory, dub-con (if you squint really hard), emotional fuck-up, kinkmeme promptfill, more warnings might be added with subsequent chapters, talk of drug use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-02
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-04 20:25:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightshade/pseuds/starlightshade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as a fill for <a href="http://shkinkmeme.livejournal.com/9516.html?thread=22273836#t22273836">this</a> prompt over on the shkinkmeme on LJ. </p>
<p>There is nothing Holmes wouldn't do for Watson, just as there is nothing Watson wouldn't do for Holmes. When Watson's love of rough sex causes problems in his marriage, Holmes offers to help out no matter the consequences for himself. The criminal element never resting doesn't help their cause either- and this time, the both of them might be in it over their head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I can't write smut without plot. Thus there will be talking, and plot, and case! And smut, later on.

I promised you fic this weekend, and even though the weekend's technically over in the part of the world I'm in atm it's still on at home base, so here you go.

Two notes in advance. First, I want you all to bow down to and hail the spectacular[](http://jg5799.livejournal.com/profile)[ **jg5799**](http://jg5799.livejournal.com/) , whose mad beta and britpicking skills have saved you from going through a mess of misspellings, Americanisms, anachronisms and page-long sentences. I likely wouldn't have published for weeks if not for her. Second, I'm working full-time at a pretty demanding job so I can't manage more than one update per week. Wish I could get paid for writing fanfiction, but no luck so far. This is a WIP, I don't know how long it'll be yet.

OK, there's another note: I can't write smut without plot. Thus there will be talking, and plot, and case! And smut, later on.

Hope you'll enjoy- and remember to thank [](http://jg5799.livejournal.com/profile)[**jg5799**](http://jg5799.livejournal.com/)!

 

 

**Shatter These Walls**  


_Chapter 1_

He had known from the moment he'd first laid eyes on her that she was too soft for his dear Watson. Oh, she had spunk, Miss Mary Morstan did, and the bearing of a lady even through the more unfortunate circumstances of her life, but she was not what his dearest friend's soldier side required, nor would she be enough to bear up under the pressure of his more adventurous attitudes. She _was_ a lady, after all.

In everything else, she was the perfect complement to the doctor. She shared his passion for books, his spark, and his humanity even towards those most undeserving of any kindness whatsoever. The more wretched the existence, the more insistent Watson seemed to see to its betterment; proof in point: The doctor's involvement with himself. Maybe it was proof, in turn, of Miss Morstan's practical intelligence (of the kind geared to dealing with the tedium of human existence, not the kind given to brainwork; Holmes was willing to credit her but not with the assumption that a female could actually encroach upon that which was his alone- well, maybe his brother's if he was feeling generous). She was not as inclined to watching over him and pandering to his whims as his doctor was.

Holmes lowered his violin, his repertoire of melancholy songs of loneliness quite exhausted and his mind too distracted by all that was around him to focus on improvising and composing new ones. Experiments- some quite abandoned, or rather interrupted by other brainwork or his leave of absence following a rather uncomfortable tumble off a ledge over a waterfall, others mildly stewing or right at crucial points for continuance- littered every available surface. With his doctor gone from the flat, Holmes had turned again to attempting to once and for all find a substance reactive to only _human_ hemoglobin So far, he had almost succeeded- if it had not been for a rather unfortunate spill of his most promising substance during a moment where boredom had overwhelmed his being enough for not even the contents of his Moroccan case to be soothing in their effect. He might admit to nearly missing the Napoleon of Crime in these instances...

Oh. Oh! Hastily abandoning the Stradivarius upon its stand, Holmes quickly strode to the cabinet housing his more exotic chemical components, particularly the ones reacting violently to the exposure to sunlight, air, or water, and pulled from within a small vial of unremarkable powder. It was lye in its dormant form, chemical formula NaOH, to be dissolved within distilled water in an exothermic reaction, the heat of which he would need to contain; maybe by adjusting his calculations so a lower strength base would be enough to mix with what he thought might be the reduced form of a complex organic compound. It was a substance he'd stumbled upon by chance when he'd almost blown up the flat while experimenting with zinc and sulfur and lye (Watson had been eminently displeased with the smells produced, but Holmes had found said most fascinating compound as a result of the experiment). Being as before he'd followed and expounded upon Auguste Laurent's chloride experiments (naphthalene and nitric acid before, then he'd attempted to further nitride the compound), even he could not object to the airing of their rooms (which had taken two miserable days of being huddled under a pile of blankets on the settee while Watson refused to bring him his case files no matter how much he'd wheedled). (1)

Blackwood had thrown quite the wrench into that particular avenue of experimentation. Then Watson had to go and get himself married, a state which in and of itself was as incomprehensible as it was vexing to Holmes, who now found himself without a sounding board upon which to resonate his theories of chemistry, life, and deduction.

In addition, Watson had been far less inclined to listen to him ranting on the subject of the females of the species ever since he'd gone and had that _governess i_ ntrude into their well-established relationship. Holmes could theoretically appreciate Watson's need for female companionship, for the soothing presence she seemed to be in his doctor's life when she wasn't insulting Holmes, or throwing wine in his face, or distrusting him, or annoying him with witty repartee she shouldn't have been capable of, but she was still not needed. He'd give his friend all he would ever ask for and more, without questioning, simply since it was the only way he knew he could ever show his appreciation.

Puzzled, Holmes abandoned his frantic movements, extinguishing his Bunsen burner because he was certain Mrs. Hudson would not suffer him a moment longer if he caused the second explosion within as many weeks. Better to err on the side of caution; his funds were not yet sufficiently recovered from his months-long hiatus and he would rather not be forced to rely on Mycroft yet again. His brother had a way of rubbing him the wrong way on even his best days, which were few and far between now that he lacked his most trusted companion's constant attendance. Being rubbed wrong while being laid up in hospital in Basel was even less tolerable, especially since the cursed doctors had insisted on keeping his drugs down to the bare minimum required for him not to be a screaming wreck of pain during those first weeks of recovery.

He had returned to Baker Street once he'd actually healed enough to withstand travel to England, his fall having done more damage than even Moriarty's twisted mind could have inflicted. He'd taken another fortnight, battling exhaustion and a low-grade fever, perfecting his urban camouflage to suit Watson's new quarters at Cavendish place, forwarding Watson's parcel that he'd had sent once around the world (distraction) to Watson, tracing Moran's whereabouts and devising a plan to ensure his continued existence. A plan which had never quite come to fruition as aforementioned marksman had taken it upon himself to flee England, probably to return to India, once he'd gotten the notion that the Yard, and Lestrade, were coming uncomfortably close to apprehending him, led, of course, by anonymous voices from the populace that came in several most cleverly devised disguises, even if Holmes said so himself. He'd been rather fond of the way he'd found to incorporate his still painful and stiff shoulder, even going as far as to masquerade as a one-armed Afghan veteran aided by his observance of Watson and his habits.

And yet again, his thoughts cycled back to his friend. Watson had not been as pleased to find him alive as Holmes had assumed he'd be. He had made his displeasure known in a direct and effective way, a straight jab to the right shoulder to unbalance him followed with a strong left to the jaw that had floored him. He'd not been able to get up again, the fireworks of pain sparked in the injured joint proving too distracting; that shoulder had been twice pulled out of place and twisted into a scarred mass after meeting with several rather sharp rocks on the way into the abyss. Or maybe it had been the snarl on Watson's face, only tempered by recognizance of his less than ideal state of health a moment too late, that staid him from rising and returning the favour.

Watson had apologized and patched him up afterwards, remarking on the good work Holmes' Swiss doctors had done on his shoulder. He'd also offered to help Holmes regain full mobility and taken some silent pleasure in seeing how pale and strained most of his help had left the detective, until he'd finally seen some improvement. Miss Morstan- Mrs. Watson, much as it pained Holmes to call her that- had had that amused twinkle of hers in her eye, covering some well-concealed concern that made Holmes wonder if she wasn't starting to care for him after all and he'd given her too much credit (not that it would astonish him to find that he was right, he _had_ been going out on a limb where she was concerned).

Holmes shrugged his shoulders, the remaining twinge negligible. Perhaps a trip to the Punchbowl was warranted that night, to bolster his failing funds and put his physical recovery to the test. Maybe there would be a fighter good enough to give him a mental challenge, make that turning and twisting of his thoughts on the subject of the absence of the one constant in his life halt in its tracks. Physical exertion was the only thing that surpassed even mental discipline in keeping pesky emotions from staining memories even deeper than necessary into the very fabric of his brain.

It was this discipline that had, literally, saved his life, for he'd have gone mad without it. Mycroft had taken it to an even greater extreme, removing himself so far from human emotion as to be incapable of understanding it on a baser level, instead discussing it with the clarity of mind that came with residing on the meta plane.

Sherlock himself had been headed down the same path, aloofness the only protection against eyes that see too much, a mind that registers _everything_ and is constantly in motion, re-classifying, re-organizing, linking, dividing, sequestering, analyzing. Emotionally charged memories are indelible and prone to cropping up at the most inopportune moments, delaying observation, impeding deduction, obstructing the flow of data along a web of information intrinsically linked to the essence of his being. Better to keep them from forming at all, keep everything on a level playing field, able to be accessed at any time without any strange priorities.

It was the arrival of one Doctor John H. Watson, fresh from the war in Afghanistan, pale, haunted, jittery and yet stronger than any other man he'd ever encountered that hindered his development into the detached, blasé and bored world his brother lived in. He'd torn down the walls Holmes had erected around his instincts, forced him to confront his emotions head-on and refused to let him distance himself, whether through aids chemical or via the force of concentrated thought.

Ever since, he'd been living in a cesspool of humanity, a quagmire of unrestrained feelings churning under the surface of his analytical gaze, his deductions sharper for it, but the price he paid...

Watson would never know. He'd never let him know. It was just a small part of what he'd do for his only friend, the only one who'd cared to break through to the deeply emotional man that lay dormant inside the genius mind. Whatever Watson did, it registered on the emotional level whether Holmes wanted it to or not; such was the nature of their friendship.

Holmes threw himself onto the settee, arm sheltering his eyes from the light that would tell him the exact time of day as surely as the voices outside the window, mercifully muted, he couldn't withstand the full onslaught of London today, not when he was feeling so strung-out along a line of thought he'd yet to discover the aim of and his supply of seven-percent solution not recovered.

Voices rose, loudly, underneath the windows- bankers, group of three, one of them owing a good-natured debt to the oldest of the group and desperate to distract him from remembering, flower girl, hansom driver chatting with the housekeeper of 145, two Irregulars keeping watch while whistling a ditty that had become popular on the wharfs the past week, Watson greeting Mrs. Hudson and the neighbor's girl... Watson?

Holmes sprang upright. It wouldn't do to let his friend find him in a black mood, not on one of his increasingly rare visits. He brushed his fingers through his hair, forcing the thoughts clamoring for his attention to the back of his mind by focusing on the gunshot wound he'd inflicted on their wall, VR, Victoria Regina and...

"What brings you here, old boy?" Soft. Calming. Soothing. He was there to listen, Watson was agitated, probably some marital spat gone awry, words had that shouldn't have been spoken or rather, shouted; he was limping ever so slightly so it couldn't have been more than a few hours since he'd last physically exerted himself, he'd not even had tea yet and it was almost time for lunch, and there were several creases in his jacket that he'd never have allowed himself if he hadn't been distracted by something he put even more importance on than his appearance. Experience dictated there was but one thing that would fit all these criteria. "Mary throw you out yet?"

"Congratulations on your brilliant deduction, Holmes. What gave it away?"

"Tea," Holmes said, throwing himself into his chair, opposite Watson's, inviting his friend to sit without a word. He'd taken care to let the chairs, their chairs, be the only surface of the room not covered in papers, experiments, or byproducts thereof. Hopefully Watson would be able to appreciate the effort.

"No, thank you," Watson shot back sharply, fixing Holmes with a baleful gaze that took the sting out of his words.

"You haven't had any yet." Holmes offered by way of an explanation.

"She said I'm too... _wild_. That I behave like an animal at night. For God's sake, I just love the woman to death and we are so well matched, but sometimes she's like a flower wilting in a vase, demanding to be appreciated but not _touched_." He wrung his hands, a gesture Holmes knew all too well for being directed at him whenever Watson felt he'd done something extremely out of the boundaries of convention and decorum, in public, of course. Talking about what went on in a marriage apparently fell under that category, even if it was to a friend. As he was here talking about it with _Holmes_ of all people, Watson himself must feel that the subject matter pertained to anything within those areas, the exaggeration in both countenance and gestures meant it was a somewhat delicate matter, and as it was Watson who was talking there, it had to be...

"It is not within the realm of my expertise to say so, old friend, but... Are you talking about... the way you... exchange affection within the confines of the marital bed, Watson?" He smirked, almost triumphantly, he'd known she couldn't handle his friend.

" _Yes_ , Holmes. To all of that. I love her, she loves me, we're well suited yet sometimes... And when I try talking to her she just... But what am I asking of you? _You_!"

Holmes was feeling distinctly out of his depth. While not a man who lived like a monk and certainly not a saint, his very nature wasn't given to a physical expression of his desires. His body was but a vessel to carry his mind and occasionally a tool to sharpen or quieten said vessel. He'd never given thought to quelling desires with another person when, should the occasion warrant it, a perfunctory use of his own hand was enough to settle the matter quickly and efficiently.

Therefore, while he was theoretically able to appreciate Watson's problem, he remained as unsure as to why his friend was talking to him about the matter as Watson sounded (there had to be others, Lestrade, Stamford, who could offer much better advice than he could). The boundaries of propriety being violated alone couldn't warrant spiting a more expert opinion such as those of men who were _actually married_ , a more helpful bit of advice than the mere platitudes he could deduce from his studies of humanity.

"She is a woman, Watson," he tried to explain. It made sense after all. The fairer sex.

"Which you have been pointing out to me at all points in our relationship. You even threw her from a train to get rid of her!"

"Oh, that again!" Holmes waved his hands in exasperation. Had Watson _still_ not got past that? It had been perfectly timed and very much necessary, not only to gain a valuable contact with Mycroft but also to remove the annoyance from the picture of their ultimately ill-fated adventure. She had the mental acumen to keep Lestrade on task and in check while dismantling Moriarty's financial base, and that was really the biggest compliment he'd ever paid a woman. He'd _relied_ on her, he'd _trusted_ her, and in turn, had paid the same compliment to Watson for finding a life companion who was, if not perfect, at least as tolerable as they could get.

"It was the quickest, most efficient way to get her out of harm's way, into my brother's protection and situated where she could be our agent in London." His explanation would, as it had so many times before, fall on deaf ears he knew.

"You constantly belittle my love for her, insinuate yourself into every aspect of our lives, and now all you've got to say is _She's a woman_?"

Holmes was quiet, not the thrumming, charged-up quiet he was just before sprinting off after a new clue in a case, the stunned quiet that came with punches to the temple, or injuries severe enough to still the ever-moving detective. His thoughts were shocked into silence, knowing that he was just a convenient target for Watson's frustration, but it still... It wasn't what he'd said at all.

There were several avenues of conversation left open to him, and while it would be easy to rile his friend further, make him spend his rage and fury on him, even allow for physical reactions (he should be able to take a bit more damage now than he had several months back), Holmes was certain that none of them would benefit Watson in the long run, introducing guilt over his actions into the violent mix of emotions depicted in every line of his tautly tensed muscles.

"Yes, quite," was all he said, whirling on his heel to restore the lye to the cabinet for later use. "Now, would you rather continue your pointless rant about the inestimable Mrs. Watson or would you care to follow me to the Punchbowl for some sport? I believe we might get a bite to eat afterwards..."

"Holmes?"

"I might find myself in need of the services of my most excellent doctor, but I need to... put this on trial." He gestured towards his right shoulder, blinking rapidly to dislodge the strains of sound rising up from memory, taking him back to air burning with unfired gunpowder, rife with the sharp sting of gun oil and burning petroleum, and twins that weren't really twins. Watson's eyes saved him, he was holding with all his power on to those bewildered, bright blue irises, pupils still slightly narrowed, a reaction to the almost-hysteria that had fueled his previous outburst, widening to more natural proportions now as Holmes' steamrollering him set him back to normal. He had observed similar reactions on administration of his adrenal extract, which reminded him that he still had to ask Watson about his observations as to the first effects on his person, that whole mess was a little hazy in his mind- that satanic pony's fault no doubt. Thank goodness Watson had blue eyes! He might never find his way out of the recollection otherwise.

He haphazardly knotted a cravat around his neck , focus restored to the present with great effort, and snatched a rumpled and stained jacket from the coat rack (why was it there? He normally kept his jackets on the potted plant in the left-hand corner behind the door). A challenging grin to Watson, just the right amount of lopsidedness to ensure his friend knew he meant it as a joke rather than an invitation to a punch-out.

"Coming?"

He didn't mind putting his other plans- putting case files into their proper place, continuing the experiment, finding a way to pry Gladstone from Watson's wife's undoubtedly overprotective care- on hold, neither did he feel much like lunching. His friend needed cheering up, so that's what he had to do.

He had been so scared when Watson, after his initial violent reaction and subsequent attack of guilty care, had not deigned to speak to him, or even look at him, again for two weeks outside their physical therapy sessions. Holmes had come to relish them- despite the pain, despite the almost-tears that he barely held back by main force of will as Watson's fingers pressed into the scar tissue, manipulating and softening and ensuring he would still be able to fight in his particular amalgam style comprised of several nationalities' techniques, they had been the only time his only friend had willingly borne his renewed company. Watson hadn't spoken even then, just...

"Thought you'd never ask." His friend snatched his hat off the same coat rack, frowning at Holmes' attire but making no attempt at getting him to dress like the gentleman he was.

"Do you have your pocketbook, or is it locked in your _wife's_ drawer now?" Holmes asked, not spiteful, just matter-of-fact. He would have to take care that the bet placed would not exceed certain limits so as not to attract too much attention from the more unsavory elements in attendance. Yes, even at the Punchbowl there were certain distinctions in the human detritus gathered.

"Have it right here, safe and sound," Watson replied, sounding slightly offended despite knowing of Holmes' intentions.

"I hope you won't mind splitting the bet today, old boy," the detective asked, peering up at his taller companion while jauntily swinging a cane he'd snatched off a windowsill as they left the house, through the front door for once.

"Not at all, Holmes," Watson answered, keeping an eye out for a hansom cab they could hail. "The practice is doing better now than ever."

"Good to hear!" Holmes grinned, then whistled sharply to the cab just rounding the corner ahead. It had taken him a while, but he had his doctor back. The one that needed the rush, needed the chase, needed the uncertainty of the moment- when he wasn't taking care of his better than ever practice.

He would do anything to keep his friend where he was, because, just as Watson needed him, Holmes needed Watson.

 

 

(1)Yes, I'm basically having Holmes almost stumble upon Luminol here. It's all very disjointed, but the chemical formulae are there.

 

_Chapter end notes:_  
First chapter done. Hope you liked it! I'd love to hear what I can do better the next time. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readability is in direct correspondence to the amount of awesome [jg5799](http://jg5799.livejournal.com/) exudes. All hail the beta goddess!
> 
> Anyway, this one's a slightly shorter chapter and also my first time writing Watson's POV. Be a little gentle with me, please- I know it's not the best and it's yet another expository shot but I hope it'll make for a fun read.

 

_Chapter 2_

  
  
Holmes had lost weight, yet again. As a doctor, Watson couldn't help but be displeased with the fact. His friend not only looked thinner, though, nor had he just picked up a few scars; he looked... _diminished_ , translucent somehow, and the natural fluidity of his motions had absconded for the moment leaving behind an abrupt _jerkiness_ enhancing the alien feel of Holmes' fighting style.  
  
He knew to accord these developments to Holmes' injuries, the broken bones and contusions suffered in the fall, just like the overall slack in the tone of his muscles, long unused. While truly ambidextrous (in typical Holmes manner, he didn't even _care_ if someone saw him pick up a pen and write with either hand), Holmes tended to favor his right hand guarding when fighting; however, he seemed to protect that side more this time, contributing to the strange agitation befalling Watson as he was watching Holmes go against his third opponent of the evening. He'd placed his bet, of course, knowing that his friend would never deign to ask him unless he was in dire financial straits, but he wished Holmes would, for once, pick someone his own size to go against.  
  
He winced as the brute got in a good shot to Holmes' ribs, anticipated and factored in, of course, for not a moment later Holmes shook the sweat from his wild, dark hair and raised glittering eyes up to Watson's position, motioning to signify he was going to go for just one more bout before he'd end the experiment for the day. Watson shook his head sharply, no, the winnings so far were more than enough, no need to risk himself more, but Holmes had never and would never listen to him on this.  
  
He pinned his opponent to the circular wall of the pit with quick strikes of his fists, alternating between open and closed hands, leaving the giant not so much as a moment to regain his wits before gathering himself, all the muscles in his body contracting a moment before he unleashed the concentrated power of his entire being in a flying kick aimed at the other's solar plexus. The opponent, not quite as easily defeated as most, caught it on crossed arms barely raised in time, being thrown back a good three feet while also unbalancing Holmes enough to make him land awkwardly in a stumble a good distance away. Holmes seemed to frown, apparently dissatisfied with this result, and moved in with a haymaker, catching another punch on his guarding left shoulder before he somehow, in one motion Watson had never been able to decipher, threw him on his back using just a small, quick step, his one arm and a little shove of his left hand. Dazedly blinking up at Holmes, the larger man took his defeat rather gracefully for being humiliated by the much smaller fighter's prowess, shaking his hand and exchanging banter clearly geared towards gleaning some of Holmes' secrets. The detective grinned, baring brilliant white teeth and clapped for his next bout to begin. Watson shook his head in exasperation, this one had been too close for comfort already and Holmes was beginning to look exhausted, the sweat no longer just delineating his muscles as they warmed to the task but dripping to the floor where he was straining.  
  
The man who vaulted over the barrier protecting the spectators from the violence of the men they were betting on for once _wasn't_ a lot more massive than Holmes himself, even if he was half a head taller. The detective, however, took him in with a sharp and practiced eye, subtly raising his eyebrows at Watson, waggling his fingers and shaking his head to make sure the doctor would just throw down the minimum bet. So Holmes wasn't sure he could beat that one, then? Watson shook his head, nevertheless going with his friend's assessment. He could count the number of times Holmes had had an attack of... nerves, or whatever it was that took his usual confidence in his victory, and never once had the win been easy; more often than not he'd even been bested in these situations.  
  
Watson tried to see the new man, who was announced as "Eddie Chung", come from the boat just a few months back, with the eyes of Holmes, or rather, William Scott, champion fighter and Holmes' alter ego in these parts. He was well-muscled in a way that didn't show immediate preference for a certain fighting style or attack. His one weakness, if one could get to employ it, would be the long braid of black hair hanging down the man's back, however, he was just now making a complicated knot of it at the back of his head. That would be hard to get to and even harder to unravel, so the advantage was gone for Holmes.  
  
Thinking of Holmes, he was taking this one a lot more seriously than his previous bouts, limbering stiffened muscles by quickly shaking them out and acquiring a little Dutch courage by taking a swig from a bottle of who-knows-what swill offered to him by one of the spectators lining the ring. Eddie Chung was smirking at him, taking the opportunity to stretch as well though Watson was sure he'd have to have limbered up beforehand, his body contorted into otherwise impossible shapes.  
  
Holmes shook his head again, cracking his vertebrae into place, eyes never leaving the opponent. This one was good, his entire demeanor seemed to say, and he was experienced.  
  
Watson distantly noticed the announcer raising his voice, so entirely focused was he on his friend. Holmes looked almost like he did when he self-administered his seven-percent solution, pupils blown impossibly wide, eyes glittering and the sheer intensity of his incredible intellect focused on one matter alone.  
  
Eddie Chung slid into a stance he'd almost attribute to Holmes' style, only deeper. He was nearly squatting on the ground, one hand held close to his head, the other almost stretched out in invitation. Holmes frowned in concentration before dropping into what Watson thought of as his "serious" style opening, hands held closer to his person than the opponent, more focused on protection than attack.  
  
They met in a series of blows too fast for even Watson's capable eyes to distinguish. He thought he'd seen a thigh-block and several high kicks- as high as Holmes' head, certainly, and Chung was spinning like a top, flipping and bouncing head over heels while his hands and feet were striking from every angle. Holmes was countering with almost desperate speed.  
  
He knew his friend would lose from that moment on. Holmes had not recovered all of his reflexes and technique, and since he wasn't that tall of a man, and rather slim, he relied on them more than anything.  
  
Apparently, Holmes' opponent knew as well, for he stopped the devastating blow to Holmes' right shoulder a moment before Holmes could guard against it, standing with his leg impossibly extended as though gravity had no influence on his balance and he'd not just been a hair's breadth away from mortally injuring his tired opponent.  
  
Holmes' wide eyes hid behind his hands as he wiped them across his brow. He bowed to Eddie Chung with his hands clasped together in front of his breast, acknowledging his loss. Watson thought he'd even heard him call the other man a master before he reached the ring to hear Chung speak in very much accented but clear English his wish for another bout with Mr. Scott once said man had fully recovered.  
  
"Ah, so you noticed... I thought so," Holmes said, breathing hard, several deep bruises already visible on his naked torso.  
  
"I did. I did not wish to injure you. You're a good fighter," Chung complimented Holmes.  
  
"Same to you, old chap," Holmes said, grinning. "It'll be a while before we meet again. Thank you for the fight. Ah, there you are!"  
  
Watson frowned at Holmes. His friend and brother in all but blood was a lot more pale than he preferred to see him, save for the bruising and two high spots of color on his cheekbones. His dancing eyes were growing duller by the second, and Watson was certain it was just the excitement of the fight keeping the detective upright at the moment.  
  
"Room. Now." Holmes made no move to resist his command or the efforts to hoist him up the stairs towards the squalid little chamber he rented above the establishment. As usual when Holmes was fighting, there was a bowl of water, clean cloths and carbolic waiting for the fighter and his doctor.  
  
"The last one was quite unusual," Watson commented as he cleaned out the shallow cuts and abrasions made by fists, watching Holmes' breathing finally deepening from the desperate gasping it had come in when he'd first sat down.  
  
"He was very good, a master of a style I have very rarely encountered in England. He has promised to allow me to study his art," Holmes replied, voice soft and rough and laden with both the excitement and the pain of his fights.  
  
"We made a good cut today," Watson said. Holmes merely nodded, appearing to be drooping now that his absolute concentration was no longer needed. Watson frowned. "You promised me dinner."  
  
"And you shall have it, mother hen, once I actually look fit to grace the fine environs of the Royale," Holmes replied, hissing as his friend finally finished with the deepest of the grazes, a small cut on his eyebrow.  
  
"No stitches today," the doctor announced. Holmes nodded his thanks, utilizing the wash basin in the corner and quickly pulling up a section of two loose floorboards to reveal one of his suits stored underneath.  
  
"It was more and less than what I'd hoped for," the detective said and, sensing his friend's puzzlement, elaborated. "More in that I could go longer than what I'd extrapolated from the time I spent away from pugilistic pursuits, and less in that my technique has certainly suffered most grievously and I will need to spend some time readjusting it to suit this new... condition." He still wasn't willing to accept that his shoulder would pose a limitation on him. Moriarty would not have this win over him.  
  
"I'll endeavor to do my best to aid you in whatever capacity I can," Watson promised, accepting Holmes' stubbornness for what it was, a desire to keep himself grounded in the old while exploring the new.

 

\-------------

  
They did have a very pleasant dinner at their favourite restaurant that night. Holmes finished almost his entire plate in spite of his fatigue, something Watson felt a vague amount of pleasure at seeing. He knew Holmes was struggling only to placate him, but it was still rather satisfying to see the notoriously finicky-about-food detective take in a sufficient amount of nourishment. He had once made it his life's mission to see to the well-being of this brilliant but rather difficult man, and deny it as he might his mother-henning streak wasn't to be deterred by a simple inconvenience as said man dying and returning from the dead.  
  
It wasn't the first time that had happened after all.  
  
Watson closed his eyes as the acrid taste of gunpowder threatened to overpower the wonderful light creaminess of the _millefeuille_ he was enjoying for dessert while Holmes was sipping his strong black Turkish mocha, barely sweetened. Those moments on the train to Switzerland had been horrifying for sure, but the real horror had lain in Holmes, pale, wan, face drawn and rather hard-pressed to even stay conscious, lying prone in his brother's chalet as Watson had done his very best to care for him with the limited first-aid supplies Mycroft Holmes had had readily on hand. His friend had not uttered as much as a single complaint, and that more than anything had told Watson just how badly he'd been wounded. A complaining, whiny Holmes was one he could deal with. The stoic man he'd had under his hands that night hadn't been, and he feared he'd been rather rash and harsh in treating him.  
  
"Watson?" He tore his gaze from the past to meet deep brown eyes looking at him, analytically, of course, but also with a concern he wasn't sure he'd ever seen Holmes direct toward anyone but him.  
  
"I wish you would stop those pointless trips to the Punchbowl," he deviated, hiding his remembered failings behind the ones that were more recent. "Surely you could just take on one or two of the more easily solved cases that come in the mail every day and gain the same monetary reward."  
  
Holmes' frown was a barely detectable tightening of the corners of his mouth. Watson was sure that in anyone but his wife and his best friend, he'd simply have missed it or misread it as a swallow.  
  
"You know very well I can't," the detective ground out. "I cannot bear to burden my mind with those... inane problems."  
  
"Yet you would grant your body respite in doing so." Watson shook his head. "I'm never going to be able to persuade you to give up your fighting, just as much as I was incapable of ensuring your Moroccan case saw less use than it did."  
  
"I have not indulged in that particular habit in all the time since my... since I left Switzerland," Holmes antagonized, eyes glittering with the challenge of Watson daring to comment on his words.  
  
"I applaud your restraint." The sarcasm was thick enough to sour the last bite of the sweet dessert Watson had continued to partake of mechanically. Holmes had that effect of pulling every last shred of Watson's attention to himself, to the point where even the finer things in life grew stale and meaningless in comparison to standing within the light of that magnificent intellect.  
  
Right now, Holmes' face was unreadable, which meant he felt offended by Watson's words. Watson braced himself for the counter-offensive, and certainly wasn't disappointed as the detective quickly emptied the last of the bitter, scalding hot beverage he had chosen for dessert.  
  
"Isn't it time you got back to dear, sweet Mary?" he asked sardonically. "She will be waiting for you already at Cavendish Place to make reparations, or am I wrong?"  
  
Watson shook his head. There was no way he was getting into that discussion with Holmes yet again. In fact, he was still wondering what kind of demon had induced him to talk to his friend about his... woes earlier. Holmes had been the exact opposite of helpful then, and right now, the sheer spite with which he was throwing him back into the frying pan had him ready to finish what Holmes' opponents had started in giving him a second black eye to match, no, outdo, the first.  
  
Holmes wasn't wrong. He was certain Mary was waiting up for him, probably with an apology on her gentle lips, expecting to hear the same from him. Spending the day with Holmes had only delayed the inevitable.  
  
Watson was also certain he had no desire to apologize. Mary had known the kind of man he was from the moment he'd been laid up in the hospital during the Blackwood case at the very latest. She had no right demanding him to change his ways, just as he had no right asking her to fulfill his every whim. She was a smart, independent woman, the very characteristics that had drawn him to her when other suitors had been put off by it. She was sheltering his heart in her very capable, very clever hands.  
  
Maybe, just maybe, if he stayed out a little longer, she would have gone to sleep and he could slip into the house undetected, and the whole matter would have been forgiven and forgotten the next morning.  
  
"You know what, Holmes?" he said, raising and eyebrow to match his friends', "I am not ready to go home yet. I will finish this very excellent tea, and then I believe I shall join you for a cigar and a sherry down in the lounge."  
  
"You continue to astonish me, Watson. Here I thought you were devoted to your wife, always ready to defend her and her happiness... and you want to eschew her company for mine? My friend, she must have wounded you deeply." That was the last that Holmes would say on the matter, Watson acknowledged. The detective would project an uncaring face at the world, but he wouldn't hurt his friend unnecessarily and he'd realized that something about the fight he and his wife had had, had hurt him more than he was willing to admit.  
  
"I was looking forward to a pipe in comfort and companionship." Holmes finished, watching as Watson carefully poured the last of his tea into the cup.  
  
Not for the first time, Watson wondered why exactly it was that Holmes' attention never wavered from him whenever they were out in public together. It had unnerved him at first, the feeling of being an insect under a microscope in the focus of the detective's interest, but he'd grown rather used to it and now it was one curiosity among many where Sherlock Holmes was concerned.  
  
He left the dredges and small bits of tea leaves in the cup, quite abruptly moving to stand only to find that Holmes had done so before he'd even completed the motion, as was to be expected with the close scrutiny he'd been subjected to.  
  
"Let's end this evening with something good!" he enthused even as he offered Holmes his arm. It wasn't strange at all that he fit just as well on it as his wife did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More soon!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, and welcome to another installment of this story. Please fasten your seatbelts since we're picking up the pace. We suggest you pay close attention as there have been sightings of plot and other rare creatures. Thank you for considering Air starlightshade for your next trip!
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_Chapter 3_  
  
  
By mutual agreement, the strange conversation between the friends wasn't brought up again in the weeks following their pleasant outing. Even so, Holmes found his thoughts stray toward it in the lull of silence brought on by the absence of anything exciting, a lack of opportunity to improve his current situation.  
  
Watson and Mary had reconciled tearfully the next morning, both swearing they would never again let an argument take their rest- he didn't understand why Watson would swear to that, he'd carted his rather drunk friend home from the salon at the _Royale_ after Watson had come close to following a group of gentlemen to their club and the high-stakes games that were on there. Watson had spent a noisy but definitely restful night on Holmes' bed while Holmes himself had tried to sort through the spinning in his head and the myriad voices and people determined to take up permanent lodgings in his memories. Yet again he had been reminded why he was so hesitant of partaking in alcohol to the point of intoxication.  
  
Morphine dulled his senses just enough that no observation could get close enough to hurt. Cocaine sharpened his wits into something even better than a Spaniard's folded blade. Alcohol, he felt, opened the floodgates to madness, lowering inhibitions far beyond what he could stand without his mind descending into chaos. Chloral, which he'd been heavily reliant upon in the course of his recovery and which he continued to use in deference to Watson's hatred of his other habits, dulled his perception to the point where just about anyone could sneak up on him to surprise him, as evidenced by his current predicament. Not sleeping in close to a week (a variety of reasons, Watson's continued absence only one of them) had made him desperate enough to rely on the powerful medication, and its effects the next day had brought him to... this.  
  
He tested his bonds again. Hunting criminals without Watson was not conducive to his health. He was abominably cold, this close to the Thames the damp spread through every corner of every building, never more true than for the cellar of a shipping wharf. They had taken his garments, leaving him in only his smallclothes to protect his modesty. Neither of the two hulking "personal attendants" he'd run afoul of had been too concerned about roughing him up unduly, therefore he had the sound of several church bells rattling his brain around his skull in addition to Big Ben's iconic melody.  
  
The case had been a simple one, just legwork for Mycroft, part of the price he willingly paid for his brother's help in dealing with the aftermath of Moriarty and his own presumed death. Documents granting minor titles had been found falsified, and records modified accordingly. Long-lost relatives were cropping up with distressing regularity. Tracing the entire matter to one of the Queen's chambermaid's brothers had been almost too easy, as had been the obtaining of the man's confession.  
  
Mycroft had suspected the foul play to extend further than just England, as had Holmes himself. A number of rich merchants involved with the spice trade had found themselves in possession of a noble title due to the deaths of previously unknown, if impoverished, benefactors distantly related. Ancestral seats had been rediscovered by the score, but since the whole affair had been spread out over more than a decade of nefarious activity it had taken this long to come to the attention of the older Holmes.  
  
When Mycroft had presented his brother with the facts, Holmes had almost scoffed at the thought of taking on this case. Mycroft had, after all, already solved it, tracing the forgeries to Hong Kong and the ancient crime syndicates known as the Triads by the simple matter of following the ink used in the tattoo found etched upon the back of the neck of the first suspect, a man so desperately embroiled in gambling he'd virtually sold his sister, the Queen's chambermaid, into service for the Triads.  
  
There was still no give in his bonds, and his hands were starting to tingle. Holmes was starting to feel slightly claustrophobic; the last time he'd been bound to a chair in a dimly-lit space he'd ended up swinging from a fishhook. He clenched his teeth to prevent them from chattering. It had been but three hours since he'd roused from unconsciousness, alone in the near dark, but, estimating from his chilled state and the amount of fluids his remaining clothes had soaked up from the ambient humidity, more than half a day since he'd hit this particular snare in his plans to expose the Triad's attempts to undermine the institution that was English nobility.  
  
He was rather thirsty. Perhaps it was time to draw out his captors? He didn't allow himself to speculate on the viability of such a simple plan as he called out for water and was rewarded by the clang of something metal- a goblet, most likely- hitting the floor a storey above the hole they were keeping him in.  
  
"What's a fellow to do for a drink around here?" he shouted, even louder. There were heated voices coming from above, two accented, Chinese, but not one of the varieties he was familiar with, one a cultured tenor with a hint of Irish in it. Three men, then, or rather, four. There was a shadow sporadically wandering across the one window high up on the cellar wall, certainly too regularly for it to be just a random dock worker. He rattled the chair across the floor, an exercise in near futility as it wasn't stone he was sitting on but hard-packed dirt on its way to mud.  
  
It was enough to bring two of the men running.  
  
"So, you're awake?" Holmes resisted the urge to roll his eyes. While it was sometimes easy to forget that nobody saw the world as he did- _sometimes_ , as most of the times people around him went to great pains to remind him of his "eccentricity", and no, Mycroft ventured out too rarely to be counted upon seeing as he did- the sheer ignorance most people exhibited in their words and actions was becoming more and more painful to watch the more he was exposed to it. One of the men moved around to stand behind his back, attempting to unnerve him by giving him an unknown assailant at his back. Holmes would never admit it, but it worked in his current agitated state. He could hide it, expertise in acting coming to the forefront of his mind even as he was cataloging all the information pressing into his sore mind.  
  
"Your powers of observation are staggering," he rolled out around a tongue swollen and crusted with blood from the hit that had caused his left eye to swell up, again. Holmes had experienced loss of three-dimensional vision before, when one eye had been shut for more than two weeks, and he was almost eager to experiment with it again. While it was disconcerting, not knowing the exact distance of objects from his self- oh, he could calculate and extrapolate from the shadows they threw on the ground, other objects, himself, but he didn't _know_ , and wasn't that just so exciting?- the amount of data he could gather on what would be required for a one-eyed man to be the perpetrator of any number of crimes was staggering.  
  
The man in front of him had dressed hastily, and sloppily- one of his shirt's buttons done up wrong, the tail of it hanging out just a little to the left of his belt buckle that was left one hole too loose for his normal habits judging by the groove creased into the leather further on, the pants worn inside out- in a worn waistcoat, brown tweed, and dockworker's trousers. He hadn't worked on the docks a single day in his life, his back wasn't stooped, the muscles in his arms not developed enough, his hands, while rough, carrying the evidence of rope-burns and tar ground into them. Sailor, on hire away from his crew to serve the man with the cultured voice. He'd been at rest before coming down to Holmes' cellar, so it had to be the middle of the night, making it around sixteen hours since his capture.  
  
Holmes grinned, he knew he had them. The white splotch of fresh caulking on the man's sleeve, half-hidden in the linen folds. There was only one ship being refitted in the docks sailing under the flag of that specific Irish trading company right now, and wasn't it just too easy to know that he'd been taken there? Really, the casks stacked up in the corner, finally illuminated by the light coming through the door the two men had left slightly ajar in their haste, prominently displayed the coat of arms, and all the pulleys, hawsers, half-finished crudely stitched heavy cloth that could only be sail, evidenced he was being held in a shipbuilder's workshop, or rather, underneath it.  
  
He didn't expect the second man to harshly slap the back of his head and couldn't bite back a moan as fireworks exploded in front of his opened eye and, much more colorfully, behind the lids of the closed one. The fireworks were swaying dangerously close to greyness, the true sign of falling unconscious. Why was it called "blacking out"? He'd never blacked out, there was no darkness rising on the way to losing one's senses. Instead, everything grew gray and fuzzy, and then vanished in a burst of white noise.  
  
"Shut your gob." Holmes grinned through the vertigo. So predictable. But he had knowledge of who it was that was holding him now, and he wasn't about to let that get away from him, or rather, Mycroft. Time to finalize his escape.  
  
"So this is where you threaten me with more bodily harm, then rough me up a little more before finally giving in to granting me the respite of a drink of brackish water as you're "saving me for the boss", am I right?" His voice sounded as if he were underwater- damage to the eardrums? He hoped not, it had taken months for the continuous ringing in his ears to leave the last time that had happened.  
  
He rolled with the punch to his back a lot better, even though his bruised ribs protested the move. Fixing his gaze on the small pitcher of water the second man, the one standing behind him, had brought and placed down near the door, he fluttered his fingers as much as the tight ropes binding them to the armrests allowed.  
  
"I don't suppose we could skip the entire procedure and just get to the point where you give me the water?"  
  
"Now, listen here, Mister Holmes." The faint accent was definitely Southern Chinese. Holmes could understand, and perhaps imitate, the two major dialects there fairly well, and knowing their cadence gave him certainty in that the two men had come from Hong Kong. They certainly weren't Cantonese, though.  
  
"You don't see me going anywhere, do you?" he interjected, and was rewarded with another body shot. So the two thugs weren't just simple thugs. They had taken account of the damage to his head, and didn't want him knocked out again. Some knowledge of medicine, a lot of knowledge about fighting and inflicting the most pain while keeping the actual injuries to a minimum.  
  
"Taiwan?" he choked out through the sparks he was certain were flying from somewhere in the vicinity of his liver. The two men share a look, neither of them consciously giving away that Holmes was right, but he'd been able to read a person's unconscious body language since he'd been four and his father had been trying to hide his guilt over a quick romp with the cook from his mother.  
  
"Long time ago," the man behind him finally spoke, earning a hard look from the one standing in front, not surprising as his voice was distinctive, a rumbling, calming basso profundo better suited to a storyteller than an agent of evil.  
  
"Oh, you traveled here via Africa, Gambia to be exact, and Hong Kong, of course," he added amiably. "Which is where the gentleman upstairs procured your services."  
  
"The gold fields of Gambia produced the funds necessary to integrate your agents into the very upper echelons of British society- a very clever ploy, and a most commendable use of the surgery techniques discovered and pioneered by the lamentably late Doctor Hoffmannsthal, I must say.  
  
"Your employer, though... he is Irish, perhaps of close relation to a certain enterprising duo of brothers aiming for incorporation of their trading company? A title in the family would quickly ingratiate him to both them and London society; since he is not the oldest and he wouldn't stand a chance of inheriting the title otherwise, he has to be a half-brother, or cousin? No, half-brother for sure.  
  
"Now, how did an Irishman come to be involved with a known syndicate of counterfeiters? Oh, don't be surprised, of _course_ news of the fake sixpence has traveled as far as London (1). He has taken on the faint flattening of the letter "r" that occurs among those speaking one of the many Chinese dialects for quite some time. Being as his older siblings trade in spices, it may well be that he has been their agents in the colonial markets of Hong Kong for some years, likely exiled there for ambition greater than his station. Ambition is well received among the Dragons, as long as it is tempered with wit and patience as it has been in this man.  
  
"So, a thirst for revenge and redemption. He is not going to be content with being a simple baron or viscount, he is going to aim higher, an earldom should do. There are not so very many of these going around, much less those without an heir apparent. In fact, the only title that might be up for being taken is that of the young Earl of Marbrooke, who has only ascended to the title two years ago and has fallen victim to an altercation between gentlemen just a week ago. The estate, of course, is still in upheaval, given the sudden dearth of successors.  
  
"So as not to cast aspersions on the sudden death of this fine example of a nobleman, there have been a series of precedent cases establishing supporters among the peerage that will vouch for the new... cousin, who has been traveling post-haste from the African colonies, where he has been born and raised a disgraced byproduct of infidelity but suddenly a sought-after commodity upon receiving news of the premature demise of young Marbrooke.  
  
"Their names are even close as I'm certain your employer has been using the clout that taking on his half-brothers' surname has given him rather than suffering the ignominy of being his father's son."  
  
Holmes took a deep breath having spouted the entirety of his deductions within the space of less than a minute after realizing that the third man's shadow had fallen across the cellar door, preceded by the glow of an oil lamp.  
  
"Very good, Mr. Holmes," the tenor voice enunciated with a stage actor's clarity. The shoes descending the stairs were hard-soled and of high quality, their tread soft on the stone. The Irishman was stepping on the balls of his feet first, his stance very balanced at every moment. He'd not just picked up diction in the Asian colonies then.  
  
"Too good, unfortunately." Holmes barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. If this got anymore clichéd he'd go and pray for Moriarty to return from the dead. The man sat the lamp he'd been carrying down out of reach, behind some debris that Holmes wouldn't be able to navigate even should he be able to move himself and the chair he was tied to.  
  
"It is time, Mr. Holmes, for you to die. I simply cannot have you go forth with the evidence of my deeds you have undoubtedly connected in your forays into the docks, or with the knowledge of my name. You were correct in that I used my mother's name most of my life, however, I have returned as my father's son so I may lay claim to the title which is rightfully mine."  
  
"By right of murder, you mean," Holmes said, thoughts running in a faster and faster spiral. He hadn't missed the click of the safety being taken off a gun, a gun held in the hands of the man still positioned behind his chair. He had to keep them talking, Mycroft wouldn't have missed that he hadn't returned to Baker Street at the time he'd planned to.  
  
The Irishman came to stand in front of him, peering down a long nose at his bruised and bloodied face. He was an unimposing man of Holmes' own height, dark-eyed and dark-haired with the tan that bespoke more time spent under the sun than suitable for a proper Englishman.  
  
Watson had sported such a tan when they'd met, after he'd been to Afghanistan. He still did during the summer...  
  
"Murder? If there was a murder, why isn't my dearest departed cousin being avenged? Why is there no hunt for the killer? No, my friend, there was no murder, just an unfortunate accident placing my cousin in the path of a bullet fired by a startled gentleman out on a pre-dawn hunt."  
  
"A gentleman that most convincingly told he was meeting Marbrooke to settle an argument pertaining to his intended's honor and good name," Holmes shot back.  
  
"You have the gentleman's word on that?" Holmes gnashed his teeth. Of course they hadn't. Said gentleman was sticking to his story about the accident despite witnesses placing him and Marbrooke in the same club the evening before, having a spirited discussion about Marbrooke's trespasses upon a certain lady. There was no doubt in Holmes' mind that there had been an armed confrontation planned when fists failed to convey the depth of disdain the unnamed gentleman held for the Earl of Marbrooke, but as the witnesses weren't forthcoming with their depositions he only had his own word against some of the Empire's finest.  
  
"Well, Mr. Holmes, as much fun your most excellent deductions have been, it is now time for me to make my way toward Marbrooke House to inspect my future holdings. It has been a pleasure to chat with you."  
  
The hard barrel of a pistol was pressed to the base of Holmes' skull. The detective caught and held the criminal's gaze.  
  
"I wish I could say the same," he said, "but there have been too many of your ilk, men so certain they would triumph over justice and escape their ultimate fate that you have come to bore me. I assure you that, should you turn me loose now, you might find clemency in the eyes of the law."  
  
The Irishman just laughed at that, a short bark that was abruptly terminated when the sound of booted feet marching somewhat arrhythmically echoed around the cellar. He whirled around, hands closing on Holmes' throat as the detective stared impassively into his snarling face.  
  
"How? How did they know where to find us?" he shouted, spittle flying. Holmes closed his eyes in disgust.  
  
"I wasn't the only one on your trail, of course," he sneered acerbically. "Your scheme, while well thought-out, has been obvious enough. Now tell me, how do you reckon your chances are at escaping the rope if you keep on throttling me?"  
  
"Better than if I stop," the criminal returned, loosening his grip nonetheless.  
  
"Even better if you're coming with me." He turned to his two helpers. "Cut him loose. Stay behind him." He retrieved a gun from the waistband of his trousers.  
  
"Now, don't try to run or your brains will paint the walls," he warned. Holmes smirked, rubbing his hands together to restore circulation through wrists that had been bound to the armrests for far too long. The ropes around his legs fell, and he staggered to his feet, deliberately exaggerating the problems he was having getting his legs to cooperate.  
  
The first man, the one who had been facing him all the time, nervously stepped back away from him, looking deferentially to the second one whose hardened face Holmes now saw for the first time. He took in the loose clothes, the coiled intensity in his stance, the intelligence reflected on uneven, maybe just plain ugly features.  
  
The gun prodding into the nape of his neck got him moving, stumbling more, but he couldn't help but notice the small tattoo peeking from the cuff of the second thug's shirt and the shoes- he was wearing Western-style slippers, a strange compromise between his more traditional attitude and way of dressing and his current stationing.  
  
"I hope you will know how to appease the Mountain Master, Straw Sandal (2)," he tossed back over his shoulder in his accented Mandarin. They might not speak it, but most Taiwanese and Cantonese people at least understood it. "I don't think he will be all that forgiving."  
  
"He will know exactly whom to lay the blame upon," the Straw Sandal replied, his beautiful voice deep and disturbingly melodious in enunciation for such a hideous man. "My Enforcer is not in the habit of mincing his words, and the White Paper Fan will find he will reap his just rewards."  
  
"Hasn't this just been the strangest thing, finding three high-ranked members of the Triads in one place?" Holmes wondered aloud, in English, ignoring the jab of the gun grinding against his vertebrae. "How have you risen to the rank of business adviser in such a short time, I wonder?"  
  
The sound of a second gun cocking had Holmes raise his head, glittering eyes fixating upon Watson's slightly disheveled and panting form silhouetted against the soft light of the cellar door.  
  
"Always good to see you, Watson," he exclaimed jovially, waving his arms. "Come join us, we were having a most _enlightening_ discussion about our Irish friend's Asian adventures. I'm certain you could provide us with more rousing tales of your army days than this man's utterly boring recount of his rise through the Triad ranks and untold feats of entrepreneurship!"  
  
Watson's face never lost his glower. He glared at Holmes, then trained his gun on the Irishman holding the detective hostage. Bewildered, he noticed two obviously Chinese-born slightly bowing to Holmes, one of them making an odd gesture that raised his friend's eyebrow. He knew both of them would easily escape back to their homeland, and he knew better than he cared to the meaning of that gesture. Time enough to worry about that later- for now, there was someone closer to home to deal with.  
  
Holmes twisted a little in his captor's grip so he could shoot him a look full of arrogance and self-assurance. "The game is up, my friend. I suggest you let me go and flee, maybe to those African fields of gold you were so enamored with, to enjoy the little that remains of your days before the Dragon sets his sights on you."  
  
"We'll see about that. What if I _don't_ let you go, and go through with my plans with the little inconvenience of London's returned-from-the-dead sleuth out of the picture?"  
  
"Holmes?" Watson shouted, alarmed at the detective's calculated stumbling and almost falling into the arms of the foiled criminal, carefully studying and cataloging reactions.  
  
"Watson." Holmes' mind raced through the possibilities, and his brother's wishes to keep the scandal under wraps, and he finally set upon the easiest way to ensure both his continued survival and the secrecy kept.  
  
When he'd been little, Holmes had never spent a day without scraped elbows and knees and stubbed toes. His mind, incomprehensibly complex in structure, had raced ahead of him, leaving his body trying to play catch-up and making his movements jerky, ungainly, even dangerous to himself and others. He constantly projected extrapolations of himself seconds or minutes ahead of the actual time and managed to look every bit the stumbling fool in consequence. He had started speaking (in French, as that was their mother's native tongue) as he turned a year old but had stopped as soon as he realized that his unformed body couldn't convey the words the way he wanted it to. It had taken him until his mother had started teaching him the English language to start again.  
  
Mycroft, again, was the one who had saved him from a lifetime of crashing into furniture and other people. He'd taken his little brother with him to his fencing lessons, and the instructor, a master of his craft, had taken one look at Sherlock Holmes, much in the way the detective looked at others now, and had declared that the little boy had to learn to master his mind first before he could even attempt to instruct him.  
  
Then he'd sat the five year-old down and told him to pursue a single avenue of thought, like the mechanics of performing a lunge, for at least five minutes.  
  
Five minutes had been torturous, an eternity in the whirling abyss that had been Holmes' conscience back then.  
  
He didn't make it the first week, or the second, but he kept coming back and he kept trying.  
  
Mycroft started letting him tag along to his boxing lessons too. His mother, as dear as she was to both of the Holmes boys, had no idea of how to deal with a child the likes of Sherlock, whose gifts were so extreme they were causing him anguish. Gifted artistically herself, she was still struggling with adapting herself to British society after the somewhat more relaxed norms she was used to in France. Her artistic sensibilities at odds with her precarious and independent nature, she alienated all the ladies she came into contact with, relying on her boys and her husband to keep her stable.  
  
His father had taught Mycroft and their oldest brother self-mastery. Sherlock, however, the unplanned and late addition to the household, was ignored on the better days, told to make himself scarce on the worse ones and left to muddle through by himself until his brother literally pulled him from the swamp and into the crystal clarity of observance.  
  
By emulating Mycroft, Sherlock learned to educe his emotional state into what he wanted it to be, and with that started to gain mastery of his thoughts.  
  
He could concentrate on a single thread of thought for close to ten minutes by the sixth week he'd been with his brother.  
  
His ability to read ahead in the minute muscle movements that every human exhibited every second they were awake and conscious had never gone away. He'd learned to use the instinct to immediately follow through on whichever reaction he deemed appropriate to his advantage; learning that, while his body might think he'd need to reflexively follow every single thought with the corresponding muscle movement, his mind could go one step further.  
  
He knew how a fight was going to end before he even started it, unless his opponent's reflexes and instinctive or trained ability to read _him_ was near equal to his own.  
  
Now, he knew that the Irishman holding him had no qualms about using the pistol he held poised to permanently silence Holmes.  
  
Watson, while his reflexes were normally above and beyond the average man's, was tired and exhausted since he had run, or force-marched when he couldn't run anymore, until he'd finally found where Mycroft's telegram (smudged with ink and water and sticking from Watson's coat pocket) led him.  
  
The man holding Holmes was well rested and high on fear and frustration, ready to fight to the death.  
  
Closing his eyes for just one second, Holmes threw himself to the side, lashing out with his bare heel toward the Irishman's knee, whose arm jerked in reflex, finger tightening on the trigger.  
  
The gunshots were so unbearably loud in the small, echoing cellar that Holmes wished he could have allowed himself to black out.  
  
Instead, he used the momentum of his fall to twist the attacker around so Watson might get one clear shot, then bringing them both to the floor and grappling for the pistol.  
  
The man's grip was already growing slack as Holmes grabbed his foe's weapon, smoothly rolling into a kneeling crouch and aiming at a forehead upon which a perfectly centered hole slowly bled red.  
  
"That was... Holmes!" Watson discarded his weapon, storming toward Holmes who was struggling with his equilibrium, head ringing with the previous blows, the thundering noise of pistols fired in close proximity to his ears and the groove along the side of his head where the bullet had missed doing any greater damage.  
  
"I'm fine, I'm good old friend!" he waved drunkenly to emphasize his state of continued existence on this Earth.  
  
"You're... How could you? Again? You almost killed yourself in front of me, again! I had to watch... how can you do this to me, time and time and time again?" Watson was furious, shouting, fists clad in black leather riding gloves clenched so tightly that Holmes wouldn't wonder if his nails were piercing through the fingertips.  
  
"I was perfectly sure of my calculations, dear boy," he tried to say but it came out a little mangled, like he was just learning to speak again.  
  
"You... _impossible_ man!" Watson roared, fist drawn back and Holmes knew he didn't stand a chance of evading the strike so he readied himself to roll with it instead only to find himself smothered in rough wool and crushed between strong arms that were squeezing the air from his lungs.  
  
He knew he could go little more than two minutes before oxygen would become an issue.  
  
"I... fine," he wheezed. Watson crushed him closer, feverishly murmuring under his breath. Holmes, almost deafened still, couldn't even try to follow the frantic mumblings and instead let himself hang limply, half-kneeling, half-raised next to the dead body of a man who had shot him and who had been shot by his best friend in return.  
  
"You..." Watson was still at it, still talking, and Holmes wasn't certain how he could get him to shut up, to get out of there and back home so he might get control over his body back, and he was definitely longing to _breathe_ now, and the dead man would need to vanish, and he'd still have to deal with the death threat he'd been issued by the Straw Sandal, and that man was going to be on a ship to Hong Kong the next morning, another anonymous sailor looking to escape military service.  
  
None of that mattered as long as it was _Watson_ who held and smothered him. Jerking his thoughts back on track was an effort.  
  
"Chung," he said. The man he'd fought at the Punchbowl days before, he'd not been a normal opponent, he'd been on the lookout for the same men Holmes had found, or rather, that had found Holmes sniffing around their trails; too convenient the timing, too perfectly established the cover for it to be a coincidence. It came out as "Ungh!" however, due to his face still being full of Watson's coat smelling of gunpowder, Mary's perfume, Watson's perfume, chloral and iodine and pungent herbs, home and comfort.  
  
"Not this time, not like this," Watson finally said slowly and loudly enough for Holmes to understand through the rumbling lub-dub of his heartbeat, and then the doctor lowered his head and crushed his lips to Holmes' split ones, and he tasted tobacco and blood and iron and...  
  
His thoughts fled into the great wide open, and for the first time since he'd been a very small boy Sherlock Holmes was overwhelmed by the force of his unfettered thoughts and emotions, and he relished it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) No such case afaik. This is a reference to the 50 cent forgeries of the 20th century.  
> (2) Straw Sandal - a high ranking liaison officer in the Triads. Enforcer - a military leading position. White Paper Fan - business and financial adviser.
> 
> There will be more soon! Still struggling a little with the formatting, please let me know if anything looks wonky. Thanks!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the first big chapter. Hope you'll enjoy reading!
> 
> Thank you to my fabulous beta, [jg5799](http://jg5799.livejournal.com) for wading through mountains of spelling and continuity errors to bring out the finished product you're seeing here. This chapter especially wouldn't have been possible without her help. Thank you so much!

 

 

 

_Chapter 4_  
  
Seeing Holmes standing there like that, unsteady, his bare forearms bruised in the pattern of the rough hemp ropes that had been used to bind him to something, seeing the unwavering certainty that Watson was there for _him_ , the doctor had felt a great fury well up in his chest. Holmes' refusal to see to his own well-being, his casual disregard of his physical safety were a long-standing bone of contention among the two of them. His own refusal to give up his practice, his marriage to Mary and moving across London had only exacerbated the matter.  
  
When the messenger boy bearing a telegram had hammered down his door in the middle of the night on a Saturday, he'd vacillated between panic of one of his patients being in a critical condition and Holmes having gotten himself into a tight spot somewhere yet again.  
  
He hadn't expected _Mycroft Holmes_ , of all people, to write him, asking him to go find his brother somewhere in a wharf on the banks of the Thames. For Holmes not to summon him himself, there had to be something dire happening. He'd even managed to do so in Heilbronn, so there was an unforeseen component to the puzzle as well, Watson surmised with a heavy heart. Sometimes he hated Holmes' methods rubbing off on him.  
  
After a frustrating and exhausting search for a hansom, rushing across all of Her Majesty's greatest city in the pre-dawn rush of merchants and farmers delivering goods, running through half the worst boroughs he had ever visited even when in Holmes' company until finally happening upon the one workshop that met all the conditions set forth in Mycroft's telegram, he'd been in a mood. To then find Holmes virtually unharmed, if a bit roughed up and tired, his ire had ignited into something strange and primal, destroying his reasoning and calm confidence and returning him to the heat-fueled craze of his days in Afghanistan. Holmes was in the grasp of a crazed criminal, and all he did was antagonize him as much as he could, along with his two henchmen.  
  
Watson didn't speak a word of Chinese, but Holmes' superior smirk told him all he needed to know about the contents of that conversation. His friend was going to get himself killed this time, for sure, he could only hope to be in time, a hope that brought his gun up faster than he'd ever managed before.  
  
Holmes, of course, noticed him in that exact moment and, ignoring whatever the criminals were doing, waved a jaunty little greeting at him.  
  
"Always good to see you, Watson!" How Watson hated these words. They always came with Holmes being in mortal danger, and today was no exception. "Come join us, we were having a most _enlightening_ discussion about our Irish friend's Asian adventures. I'm certain you could provide us with more rousing tales than even his recounting of his rise through the Triad ranks!"  
  
He'd listened to Holmes prattle, watched the two Chinese men slink off through the narrow window set high enough on the wall that Holmes would've had to stand upon his shoulders to reach, watched Holmes dig his own grave and was barely, barely in time to save his friend's life _yet again_ even though the detective had gotten himself shot. _Shot_! In the head, no less.  
  
Remorse over killing a man couldn't compare to seeing Holmes lurch to the side, fall, and get up again. Holmes didn't even take possible guilt on the doctor's side into consideration at all; he'd croaked after was that he was fine, in a tone that poked fun at Watson's worry over him when Watson violated his Hippocratic oath to bail him out once more. Irrational couldn't even come close to what Watson was, overwhelmed with sensation, conscious thought fleeing the scene.  
  
Watson had reached his zero point in that moment. He shouted at his friend, trying to convey the utter rage, exasperation and _fear_ coursing through him. He couldn't remember _what_ he'd shouted, only that, through a haze of red, he'd seen his friend's relief, minute as it was painted on the impassive features.  
  
So he wouldn't murder him, wouldn't commit the one sin he couldn't ever recover from, he crushed him to his breast instead, smothering all his protests by holding to his almost naked form faster. Maybe Holmes wouldn't slip away like a drop of blood in the waters of the Thames if he just held him a moment longer.  
  
"You're impossible to keep, Holmes," Watson muttered into the wild, thick hair, the copper-and-salt of Holmes' blood mixing with the less appealing odors that were prevalent this close to the Thames. The groove in Holmes' scalp worried him, but the fact that the detective was still conscious, still breathing, still _living_ for once overrode the doctor's desire to stitch him up that was distantly clamoring for attention amidst the furious mix of emotions drowning Watson in its intensity.  
  
"You're impossible to keep, impossible to let go. You run off to God-knows-where whenever you feel about it, and you don't even have the sense of telling me about it anymore. You didn't think a second about leaving me behind at Reichenbach, you're still so wrapped up in yourself that you don't think about what it does to me when you leave me behind now.  
  
"I come and I always, always find you like this, broken, wounded, and you expect me to put you together again. Damn, Holmes, you're my best friend, and the only one whom I have told everything to, to whom I would give anything, and you're not giving anything back.  
  
"I can't go on like this, Holmes, I just can't. I wish you would turn and look and see me, see the people who care about you. How would you feel if it was Mary who alerted you to my being in a situation? I had to hear from _Mycroft_!"  
  
"I... fine," he heard his friend wheeze out into the fabric of his thick coat. He kept his arms locked around the slumped body, squeezing him, needing to feel the soft in-and-out of his shallow breaths, the warmth of his skin. Holmes was starting to struggle against his hold now, restlessly clawing at Watson's arms with his hands swollen from long confinement. Watson paid him no heed, too much needed to be said, and he continued to berate his friend in an endless tirade trying to make him understand just how badly he'd hurt him.  
  
"Ungh!" Holmes said, urgently, as if Watson could understand what he meant by just looking into his eyes. Eyes that were frantic, frantic with trying to put his deductions into words now that he'd made a connection, set wide and feverish in the much-beloved face. His brain refused to engage his voice, and the frustration shining through made Watson want to throttle him again. He'd just escaped death by the merest of margins, and all he thought about was catching the next criminal- the one who was lying dead next to them didn't even factor into his reasoning anymore. Fury reaching new heights, like a spring floodtide, Watson held Holmes an arm's length from him.  
  
"Not this time, not like this," he told him, and finally gave wordless voice to his sentiments by crushing his friend's mouth to his before he could convince Watson to follow him on a fool's chase around London.  
  
Holmes was frozen in his arms, and Watson himself could hardly comprehend what was taking place. His friend's lips were so much rougher, more pliant, _different_ from Mary's, but at the same time he could finally, finally let himself go. This was Holmes, and as long as he didn't kill him, whatever happened they'd be fine in the end, thus was their relationship, their friendship, their _love_. They had a barter system after all.  
  
He was rough, he knew, and it was heated and raw and primal. Holmes started to respond to his kiss, not by shoving him away but by making a muffled noise deep in his throat, as strange as it seemed to the small, ignored part of Watson that was still thinking.  
  
Holmes' face was smudged with both blood and mud, his mouth tasted like cold tobacco and something uniquely Holmes. The stubble of his unshaven cheeks scratched along Watson's mustache, and he couldn't get enough of it.  
  
He cradled Holmes head to his, tilting his neck to go deeper, hungrily devouring the unresisting mouth, his tongue tangling with Holmes', enticing it to join the dance. Holmes was trying to make another attempt at speaking, so Watson redoubled his efforts. Finally, the detective's lean, muscled arms came up around his waist and shoulder, and he responded enthusiastically to Watson's kiss.  
  
Their tongues were dueling for dominance now, and Watson bit harshly at Holmes' split lower lip, tasting the fresh rush of blood, warm and salty, better than the best brandy could ever taste. The detective moaned, which sent Watson into an even deeper frenzy.  
  
Egged on by a spasm in his leg, the doctor pulled the detective up and pushed him across the room, carrying his entire weight in his arms as he was still utterly disorientated and probably concussed. He couldn't bring himself to care, though, too intense were the flames licking at the remnants of his conscience, incinerating whatever he might have considered in a clearer state of mind into the ashes of sanity. Watson stumbled on a tangle of ropes , bearing both himself and Holmes down to the ground behind some barrels of tar and out of sight of the remains of the man he'd shot; the pupils of Holmes' brown eyes blown wide in confusion and lust. He let go too early to catch himself roughly on his hands, and Holmes groaned as his head thumped on the hard dirt before he reached up to kiss Watson yet again. Watson raked his hands through Holmes dirt-streaked hair, nails scratching at the scalp wound left by the bullet. Holmes actually winced, but Watson didn't allow that to deter him, neither did he give Holmes' hands scrabbling at his collars any more attention.  
  
Kissing down Holmes' throat stilled him, allowing Watson to capture his hands and pull them up above his head, baring more of that neck to his fevered kisses. Feeling Holmes writhe against him, the sheer amount of excitement still running amok in his veins, his need was amplified by every single touch and contact between them.  
  
Holmes' skin, where it wasn't sparsely covered in fine, scratchy or downy black hair, was surprisingly soft, the sleek muscle covering the thinner-than-usual body springy and resilient, and he could not resist biting down on the unscarred shoulder.  
  
Holmes arched against him, lashing out with his legs as his wrists were still trapped in Watson's hands, but Watson trapped them between his clothed ones, distracting him with more kisses.  
  
"Watson, please!" Holmes groaned against his neck, his skin sweaty and heated despite his near nakedness and the damp cold of the cellar.  
  
"Please what?" Watson asked, control shattered and condensed into tiny droplets of molten heat coming to pool in his groin.  
  
Holmes moaned, throwing his head back, hitting the ground hard and giving another wince as his pupils blew even wider, nearly entirely subsuming the brown of his irises.  
  
"Please, please," he kept repeating, senselessly searching for some skin contact with his mouth, the only way he still could trapped as he was in Watson's power.  
  
Watson smirked from where he was worrying Holmes' skin between his teeth, and switched over to treat the scarred shoulder the same as the good one. Holmes slipped one of his hands free of Watson's grasp and between their bodies, age-old instinct leading him to palm the doctor's hot cock through his trousers. Watson howled and smothered the sound by biting down hard on the scar tissue he'd laved with his tongue and grazed with his teeth a second ago.  
  
Holmes' answering cry of pure pain and lust would have broken even the strongest resolve, and Watson was already gone too far on sleeplessness and worry and exhilaration.  
  
His strong hands let go of Holmes' wrist in favor of grabbing onto the dirty undershirt still covering his torso. Raising himself on his elbows, he gave him no warning before ripping it in two. Holmes returned the favor by taking it upon himself to even their situations out a little and at least getting rid of Watson's coat and scarf. Watson frowned, sitting up for a moment before making record-time in divesting himself of his jacket, waistcoat and shirt as well.  
  
Bare skin on bare skin was a revelation, hazed thoughts clarifying into one goal- to get closer. Their bodies undulated in their subconscious desire to fulfill biology's commands to their nature, no matter how, and Watson, three continents and years in the army worth of experience rising to the occasion, finally divested them both of their last clothes in an unexpectedly acrobatic move that left Holmes gasping in surprise.  
  
They clawed at each other, and Watson used his greater mass to firmly pin Holmes to the ground while the detective was still attempting to find purchase on the doctor's sweat-slickened skin. There was no gentleness, nothing but the need, and the want, and the heat.  
  
Holmes came back to himself a little when Watson, after casting his eye around, smashed the small oil lamp the Irish criminal had carried down into the cellar, deepening the shadows along the wall and making clear the hour of the morning in the vague bluish light cast through the window the Chinese men had escaped through.  
  
"Watson?" he questioned, the first word spoken in many minutes filled with groans and gasps and whimpers.  
  
"Shh, you're fine, old boy," the doctor soothed even though Holmes felt anything but fine with the odd pressure of his friend's fingers questing around his behind, written clear as day in the frown lines between his brows. Holmes didn't speak again, instead giving a trusting nod, and Watson, the velvet softness of the detective's pale arse irresistible under his touch, found and circled his goal, aiming and quickly thrusting inside.  
  
Holmes arched up, off the ground, and _squeaked_.  
  
Irritated, for that reminded him too much of the woman that had no place here right now, Watson held him down and, after coating his fingers with more oil pushed two fingers into the tight hole. Holmes turned his head aside, biting down on his lip, and something like a small twinge of guilt managed to break through the overwhelming need to fuck.  
  
"It's fine, it's fine," Watson said, staring down at Holmes' bruise-mottled face. The detective nodded again, hands clenched around Watson's shoulders, nails biting into his skin, and Watson knew that to be the assent he'd been waiting for. He lifted the muscled legs, so flexible and strong, so different from Mary's soft thighs but somehow just as beautiful and set them over his shoulders, gentling the confusion from Holmes' face by kissing him harshly. Holmes' hands found new purchase around his waist, resting there limply; it was clear the detective had no idea of what was coming.  
  
Watson lined himself up, baring his teeth in a snarl and, in one well-practiced and fluid movement, thrust into Holmes, filling him deeply and suddenly. He held himself perfectly still, waiting for Holmes' reaction, but the dark-haired man just barely tightened his grip on Watson's waist, breathing deeply and softly through what Watson knew had to be some discomfort.  
  
Holmes was tight, tighter than anyone he'd ever had on three continents and in every establishment frequented in his life. He was also impossibly hot, and moaning ever so enticingly as Watson set a punishing pace after just a few seconds of waiting for Holmes' muscles to soften enough to enable it.  
  
Holmes' movements were jerky, asynchronous to Watson's, and he found himself folding him almost in two to still him, and fuck him deeper, for there was nothing like being sheathed inside a willing body. The slickness was giving way to a clinging rasp as what little oil there had been was worn away in their frenzied coupling, and Watson thrust ever harder, desperately close. All his worries, all his pain, all his anxiety was snapping off him with every roll of his hips, with every small sound Holmes was making. This, _this_ was what he'd been missing, this earthy, primal, raw fulfillment of a man's need and lust.  
  
"Holmes!" he groaned, feeling his orgasm being pulled from deep within by Holmes' clenching passage. Holmes gave a wet sort of breathless gasp in response, doubled over as he was Watson could barely make out the shadow of his dark hair splayed upon the ground, one of his hands working his cock in those short, abortive jerks he'd tried to move his hips in.  
  
He came with an inarticulate groan, flanks heaving, convulsing as Holmes was scratching his back with the short, ragged nails of the hand holding on to him. Spent, he pulled out of Holmes without fanfare, letting his legs fall to the ground with a thump and collapsing on top of the detective with a deep moan, trapping his hand just as he felt wetness spread between their bodies and Holmes shuddering in silence.  
  
They lay there, both breathing heavily, both recovering their faculties and the strength to continue their lives. For the moment, Watson felt utterly content, his whole being centered within himself, struggles and pain forgotten.  
  
Holmes was starting to tremble underneath him and Watson remembered his bruises, and with them what had brought them to this. Thoughts of anger and pain returned, and the first stirrings of guilt.  
  
"Holmes?"  
  
"I'm good, I'm good," the detective answered, his voice rough and thready, well-fucked if Watson said so himself.  
  
"This was... I won't say I'm sorry," the doctor blurted out in blustered defiance. He was exhausted, and with his energy went much of his anger, but enough of it remained that he would not allow his conscience to intrude upon him yet.  
  
"Nor would I like you to, old boy," Holmes said gently, that thready voice distracting from his words.  
  
"I hope you will not hold it against me."  
  
"Never, my dear, never." If this continued, his anger would collapse, leaving him with the cold and paralyzing guilt as his only companion.  
  
"Holmes, you... I do hope you will find it in you to forgive me, even if I cannot ask for it."  
  
"You do not have to be forgiven for that which happened with my full consent," Holmes said. "There is nothing you could ask I would not give you, and if what we did comforts you there is no need to apologize either. You, my dear Watson, are my dearest friend and one companion."  
  
"Then... did you enjoy it, too?" He still couldn't bring himself to look at Holmes, look at his naked body, look at what his actions had done to debauch the one man whose life he valued above his own. A man who had expressed his utter disinterest in carnal pursuits more than once.  
  
"Of course, Mother Hen, do not fret so." He paused. "Would you terribly mind if I borrowed your coat, my dear? I seem to have misplaced my clothing."  
  
"Certainly not," Watson replied with a steadiness he didn't feel. His stomach was roiling now, his thoughts turning to his wife. However could he do something like this to her? How would he face her now that he'd broken the sanctity of his marriage? He closed his eyes. If he avoided seeing what he'd done, maybe he could deny it had happened for just one moment longer.  
  
He heard Holmes struggle to his feet, imagined him swaying for a moment before bare feet pattered unsteadily toward Watson's discarded clothes. The rustle of cloth on bare skin, and then the soft footsteps returned. Holmes knelt next to him, laying a hand on his brow with infinite care.  
  
When he opened his eyes, there were gentle brown irises looking down at him, easily visible in the golden glow of the early morning light.  
  
"Mary can never know," he said. There was something flashing through his friend's eyes, but Holmes simply nodded and Watson was sure he'd imagined it.  
  
"Certainly not," he agreed.  
  
"We will not repeat this."  
  
"I wouldn't mind if we did," Holmes offered, looking vulnerable. "What we need, when we need it, isn't that what our barter system is all about?" Watson mustered his friend, bare feet, blood and dirt caking one side of his face, the other badly bruised, eye swollen shut, his flyaway hair plastered to his skull with dried sweat and his hands vanishing into the sleeves of Watson's too-large coat.  
  
He sighed, accepting Holmes' hand up and limping over to the little piles of clothing haphazardly strewn on the ground. Holmes looked away again, flapping his hands dismissively.  
  
"We don't have to, of course, but I just thought this might be a good way of you finding what has been causing problems with your wife while... not being unfaithful."  
  
Watson froze in the midst of trying to pull up his trousers.  
  
"How is this not being unfaithful?" he questioned sharply. "I just broke my vows!"  
  
"But of course not, my dear Watson," Holmes replied, a small smile stealing onto his face as he observed Watson's almost comical attempts at clothing himself while his leg refused to bend. "All we did was... have a bit of sport in the aftermath of a case, nothing untoward happened."  
  
"How can you say this, Holmes? Nothing untoward? Have you forgotten the law, my _state of matrimony_? What I did to you..."  
  
" _Please_ , my friend, stop fretting. The law has no import on our friendship, it is more of a guideline anyway as long as discretion rules. Don't you believe that I could have stopped you had I wanted to? I _offered_ this, and you can take it at any time. Don't feel like you owe me, or that it takes away from what you owe your wife."  
  
"I owe my wife my _faithfulness_!" Watson shouted.  
  
"And you give it to her. All we did was... relieve some tension. There was no harm done. There is nobody to take your affections from her, as we are and will be best friends, which she knows. This shall not harm either of your bonds." Holmes' voice was steady and soothing, his reasoning strangely sound if somewhat illogical, and Watson found himself taken in by his friend's arguments as it so often was the case.  
  
There _had_ been more than one instance when Mary had thrown him out, or had complained of his... vigor. Holmes' solution was far from ideal, but then, Mary had been approving of their friendship more the longer she'd known Holmes.  
  
"I would still prefer if this didn't happen again," he insisted.  
  
"And I will reiterate that the offer stands, old boy, if you wish to take it or not. Now, shall we inform Mycroft of the happy ending to this unpleasant matter?" Holmes stepped in closer, steadying Watson with a strong grip on his shoulder letting him pull on and fasten his trousers at last.  
  
Watson gratefully took the out. There was no doubt in his mind that the strange events of this day would follow him in his dreams for a good long while- Holmes' thin, wiry and pale body, the sounds he was making, the rough scratching of his stubble on Watson's clean-shaven face and trimmed mustache- but for now, if Holmes was willing to put it all behind them and forget, so would he. The anger had worn off, but instead of guilt Watson felt shocked into a state of numbness he had not expected but welcomed nevertheless.  
  
"We have a little walk ahead of us," he said, locating his cane at the top of the stairs where he'd dropped it to aim his pistol. "There was not a single cab driver who would brave this neighborhood."  
  
"A shame! The enterprising spirit has been snuffed in London's hansom cab drivers!"  
  
"Or maybe common sense has finally started to gain hold of the common man."  
  
They bickered all the way through the wharfs, ignoring the infrequent looks thrown their way for their general state of deshabille and Holmes' clear lack of trousers and footwear. As weird as Watson felt the simple calm and contention seeping through the numbness was, he also couldn't shake the feeling that it was _right_. Whatever this had been, it had been more than anything what he'd been craving ever since he'd started courting Mary.  
  
The first telegraph office they saw had Holmes wire Mycroft their whereabouts, and with that, everything was set to rights quickly. He was sworn to secrecy on the case, as it was one that would damage the reputation of the crown if it got out, but he felt that was no great loss. He had no intention of ever speaking of it again anyway.  
  
A sideways glance at his friend showed him leaning against the wall outside the telegraph office nonchalantly, his haughty expression elevating being clad in only Watson's coat to the finest couture.  
  
Holmes glanced over at him and waggled his eyebrows reassuringly. "So, old boy, you think Mary's waiting for you with tea yet?"  
  
Watson frowned at the sun quickly rising above the rooftops. "She'll more likely have thrown it out cursing you," he answered back, surprised at how easy it was to ignore the morning's craze, how easy Holmes- awkward, rude, anti-social Holmes!- was making it, and he wanted it to be that way because he wanted to blame anything other than himself.  
  
"She won't. She will just be glad to have you back safe and sound," Holmes said, rolling his eyes. "And not let you out of her sight for the rest of the weekend. A pity, I was hoping to have you come round the Diogenes tomorrow to finish up with Mycroft."  
  
"I'll be there," Watson promised. Forget. Don't think, just forget, and bask in the afterglow like it used to be with the cases.  
  
"Great! Ah, there's my cab," Holmes shouted, waving the driver over. "I'll have Mrs. Hudson telegraph you the time."  
  
Watson was left standing alone, slightly lost, before picking himself up. "Remember to bring my coat!" He shouted after Holmes' cab. Chances were the detective might have heard him, but he knew there was not a single one he'd ever see his garment again.  
  
He clambered into the second hansom arriving, giving the driver the address and settling back into the seat with a sigh of relief at finally taking a weight off his leg.  
  
Maybe Mary would really be waiting for him with tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time I wrote smut in ages. Thank you ever so much for your comments and Kudos- you feed the author! Hope you're all still OK, and sorry it took me so long to update. RL gets in the way of fangirling too often methinks...


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